Ruin Impediment
by hiding duh
Summary: Basch/Ashe. Then she turned sixteen and ordered him to wait for her.


**Ed****it**: Basch's Quickening is Ruin Impendent. The title here is Ruin Impediment. Um, for a reason. ;

**Author's Note**: You know, these all start as freakin' _drabbles_. Damn it. Stupid OTP.

x

When he was seventeen, rumors of Dalmasca's new heir spread through each Landis province.

Basch, being preoccupied with Noah's frequent disappearances, briefly scanned the congratulatory pamphlets, then promptly classified the information as nonessential. After all, this was Dalmasca's _ninth_ royal child—one that would have no possible influence on, or connection to, him.

At eighteen, when his father temporarily closed the armory to celebrate a _Dalmascan_ holiday, and Basch was left to sort the inventory, Noah inadvertently sparked his curiosity.

"I find it interesting," he told Basch, sharpening a mythril blade.

"Mm?"

"Archadia has three sons," Noah mused. "Dalmasca has eight. Were they ever to wage war against one another—"

"Nine."

Noah frowned, sparing him glance. "What?"

Basch straightened, his fingers flexing around a wooden storage box. "Dalmasca has nine sons."

Smirking, Noah spread a set of polished daggers across the counter. "Not quite."

A year later, when the valleys of Landis were no more, and Basch was literally at a crossroads, he chose the path not taken by his brother. To the north, the Imperial city of Archades held no allure. Eastward, the Skycity of Bhujerba looked promising. But Basch found himself heading south, cautiously exploring the wild sands bordering Dalmasca.

At the bottom of a sand dune, an enthusiastic Seeq weathered the storm with him.

"Good timing," he said in confidence, slicing a cactite and offering Basch a taste. "Soon, Rabanastre will hold a celebration like you've never seen."

And though Basch was only passing through and had nothing to celebrate, he found himself drawn to the narrow streets of Dalmasca's capital city. There, the people welcomed him with bright smiles and earnest glances, and when he parried an attack by a thieving Bangaa, the soldiers patrolling Muthru Bazaar had nothing but sincere admiration for him.

Exactly a year later, on the youngest heir's third birthday, hours before the procession reached the city plaza, Basch flung a heavy mace at Vossler.

"Majesty," Vossler threatened, displaying said weaponry and fretfully ushering a young prince into his rightful seat in the hovercraft. "A decorum exists for the sole purpose of appropriate management."

The prince gave him a displeased sniff, took one look at the mace, then shrugged and toddled off, skittering up the long flight of stone steps, eager to join his brothers.

Amused—and trying desperately to hide it—Basch turned to Vossler.

"Not one word," Vossler held up a hand, dragging himself up the stairs to retrieve the child, cursing entry-level positions worldwide.

So it was fortunate that Basch had been paying attention in his stead, else he would not have seen the oldest boy impatiently sling a tiny girl over his shoulder and attempt to slink off.

He was at his side before he knew why.

"We're _rescuing_ her," the prince informed him casually, adjusting his hold on the squirming toddler and nodding his chin at the advancing magisterial procession.

Fascinated, Basch watched the littlest Dalmascan royal pouting, momentarily reminded of his brother's words.

"Your Majesties, _halt_!" came a terrified chorus of shrieks, succeeded swiftly by a congregation of attendants streaming out of the palace, maneuvering around tall pillars and aiming straight for the princess.

Annoyed, the prince broke into a run, taking two steps at a time, flanked by his cheering brothers.

Later, Basch would remember very little of the whys and the hows, but there was a bad step, a slight twist of an ankle, a tumble down the stairs, a tangle of royal limbs, and one entertained—and wholly unharmed—child in his arms.

"I realize there's _eight_ of them," Vossler muttered, brushing against his shoulder and helping the boys up off their skinned knees. "But the _sons_ of Dalmasca come first."

Basch took one look at the unconcerned child in his arms, and said nothing.

In response, she sprawled across him, upside down, and yawned.

When she was six, and he was rising in the ranks, she had a habit of trailing him through the courtyard. And the cellars. And the lower halls. Her brothers were slowly leaving the palace, traveling west with their father, and this, apparently, left her free to _hunt_ him.

"A second shadow," Vossler would say disapprovingly, organizing the formation charts. "It is not proper, Basch."

But when she smeared her face with dirt and stomped around in her brothers' clothes and swung around a wooden sword, Basch secretly worried that his second shadow was outgrowing her brothers and her father and her country.

"You are forbidden from accompanying Vossler to the Sandsea," she notified him a day after her tenth birthday, whizzing past him in the courtyard.

He looked up from the crossbow he'd been using to train one of the recruited knights, and inclined his head slightly. "Majesty?"

"Forbidden!"

Of course, her request made no sense until he was returning from one of the shops and accidentally accepted Vossler's invitation.

"My, what brings _you_ here?" one of the women asked softly, draping herself across Basch.

"Ooh. The silent type," cooed another, scooting closer.

"My _favorite_," drawled a third.

Vossler never invited him again.

On his thirtieth birthday, Basch felt it. The crooked sidewalks of Landis, the cobblestone avenue he'd lived on, the identical scar on his brother's palm—all were calling for him. So, he shed his armor and his rank before his king, and returned home.

"Are you still wondering?" he asked gruffly.

Noah raised an eyebrow, coming to stand next to him. "No."

The mist covering the valley beneath them seemed to thicken as they stood.

"Archadia's four sons," Noah said, "will rise to power. And I along with them."

"Dalmasca's daughter," Basch replied, "will never allow it. And I along with her."

When he returned, Basch found the princess gone.

_Off to conquer Nabradia_, she wrote on his door and returned a year later, unrecognizable to most, save him. But there was a new sense of entitlement lingering about her, and he silently encouraged it as her brothers vied for the king's approval.

Then she turned sixteen and ordered him to wait for her.

And though he knew not what exactly she'd meant, he decided to write his daily report outside, squinting under the moonlight.

"The rain season is about to begin," she noted casually as she led a pair of chocobos past him.

"Of course," he replied in much the same way, rising to accept the reigns. "What better time to disregard the king's orders."

Indignant, she seemed to contemplate the situation, then leisurely released the smaller chocobo, daring him to protest.

"I'll take the front," she said, and when he made no attempt to mount up, added, "I believe that means you'll take the back."

She did not fit into his arms, nor did she feel like she belonged there, but Basch mapped out the places where she _did_. Like on the north bank of the Giza Plains, ignoring the downpour, or in the crystal glade, besting a viper, or in the field of fallen wings, practicing spells.

She was smiling when she asked him.

"Am I to marry Lord Rasler?"

"If that is your duty, yes," he replied stoically, shielding the chocobo's eyes from rain.

She slumped against him. "And if I am to rule Nabradia instead of Dalmasca, will you remain by my side?"

"That is _my_ duty."

When she was widowed, her father hastily summoned him—pacing the length of the preparation chamber and fixing Basch with a knowing glance. His withered hands reached into his robes and presented Basch with the Dusk Shard.

"This is her birthright," he murmured. "Should the time come, it will warrant the quality of her blood."

"Majesty—"

"I entrust you—and only you, Basch—with its safekeeping."

And if he'd been contemplating whether it had been fate or his own imperfection that had caused her husband's demise—after all, he hadn't insisted that Lord Rasler be equipped with _proper_ armor—he instantly dismissed the thought.

At thirty-six and nineteen, she hated him, but said, "You took my father's life. Why spare _mine_ now? You would have me live in _shame_?"

And he told her, "If that is your duty, yes."

Somewhere in the Land of the Garif, she sat next to him by the fire, and yawned.

A coincidence, really, that Dalmasca's _ninth_ royal child—the one that he'd been so convinced would have no possible influence on, or connection to, him—would actively seek his company and his advice.

"An alliance between Dalmasca and the Empire?" he prompted in a low voice.

She scowled and grit out, "I fear I could not bear the shame."

"A shame, perhaps, for me and for you," he replied passionately. "But for Dalmasca, it is hope."

She considered him for a moment, then averted her eyes. "And you can just accept this, can you?"

His fingers brushed against hers in passing. "What is shame to me?"

It is only now, after Bahamut, when he is settled into his brother's position, hiding his scars underneath the mask of a Judge Magister, that he ponders over the democratic nature of the Empire—one which makes _any_one eligible for _any_ position.

When he is thirty-seven, the loud cries of Dalmasca's newborn heir reach him first.


End file.
